


A Match Made in Metal

by Ghost_of_a_Chance_13



Series: Made in Metal [1]
Category: Megamind (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Girl Mechanics, Grief and griefing, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, The Rocker AU no one asked for but we all need, import from ffnet, very slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:53:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26019079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghost_of_a_Chance_13/pseuds/Ghost_of_a_Chance_13
Summary: Cross-posting from FFnet.Charged with the murder of Metro Man, Megamind & Minion flee for the border but Megamind is discovered by an odd woman living in the wilds of Branson, Missouri. Sonja refuses to turn them in & opens her home to them...and 'home' includes her auto customs shop, her employees, her doomsday-prepper-calibre cellar, and everything she's learned from living on the outside of the law. Somewhere between close calls & car repairs, Megs realizes there's more to Sonja Merlo than meets the eye...and he's in grave danger of falling for her.Minion? Yeah, he's just along for the ride.
Relationships: Megamind/Original Female Character(s), OC/OC
Series: Made in Metal [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1888492
Comments: 3
Kudos: 4





	1. On the Run

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing new here just yet - since 2.14.19 - I just hadn't realized I never brought this to AO3. Earlier chapters may have grammatical errors.

_**** _

> _**Hey, Y'all! Ghost here. If you enjoyed my one-shot "Ashes to Ashes,"be sure to keep an eye on this story. "A Match Made in Metal" is the backstory alluded to in A2A - the story of Megamind's sudden relocation from Metro City, Michigan to the backwoods of Missouri, the struggle to hide then earn his freedom, and his subsequent relationship with Sonja Merlo. This story, like A2A, is set in an alternate universe so some things won't be canon. I hope you enjoy this story, and that everyone has a great week! This chapter dedicated to my lovely Megamind Beta Lawren Deer, for looking this over for me.** _

**S** **uggested Listening: Coldplay "Viva la Vida," Alice Cooper, "Stolen Prayer"**

* * *

**1: On the Run**

_It's funny how the world works,_ thought the young man staring forlornly through a dirty windshield. He'd given everything he had to help protect the woman he'd loved, given his all to take out the monster he'd mistakenly created. Still, after all was said and done, the people of that city just couldn't see past his prior mistakes. As for Roxanne...the name brought a painful twist to his empty gut. Dear, lovely, spunky Roxanne Ritchie...

She may have loved him; he didn't really know. She'd given him a teary kiss goodbye, and let him sneak out of her loft via the fire escape, certain the sirens they'd heard moments before were heading her way. He'd almost refused to leave...almost committed himself to turning himself in and praying for a pardon. Then she'd turned to him with tears in her china-blue eyes, and begged him to run, find somewhere he could live his life happily, and never look back. At that moment, the police had pounded on her front door, and he'd been left with no choice but to flee upward from the balcony, the words "I won't forget you" falling softly from his lips. She gave no answer, only pressed a thick envelope into his hands and turned to answer the door.

Megamind fled south that night, amidst a statewide manhunt. He hadn't had time to meet up with Minion before fleeing but had made plans to contact each other every few days until they reached their destination: the US-Mexico border. Neither stopped in populated areas longer than it took to find new guises for the holo-watches and scrounge up something to stave off the hunger they were now used to. Other than occasional brief communication by holo-watch the two friends were utterly alone, and the continued separation was heartbreaking.

Cutting through Indiana was less than memorable for Megamind. It was difficult to get a feeling for a place through hundreds of miles of back roads, most of which seemed all the same. Fortunately, he and Minion were set for at least a year or so….they had Roxanne to thank for that. He had no idea where she'd gotten the envelope of large bills from, and he didn't want to know. All that mattered anymore was survival.

Upon reaching Springfield, Illinois, Megamind sold the motorized bicycle he'd stolen in Michigan in a sleazy pawn shop and bought an inconspicuous used Chevy he'd seen in someone's driveway with a for sale sign on it. The sale was quick and impersonal, and he hadn't bothered registering the vehicle. A lone Kansas license plate he'd found in a salvage yard in Auburn was sufficient to detract attention, along with the backseat he'd packed with various items - a rolled-up blanket and pillow he'd bought at a Carlinville Dollar General, a couple of cheaply made plastic coolers he'd found by the roadside in Alton, a few solid color plastic tubs he'd bought at a Dollar Tree in Florissant, Missouri to contain necessities — For all the other motorists knew, he could be living out of his car. Megamind did everything he could to avoid the big cities, and even more to avoid notice.

By the time he'd gotten to De Soto, Missouri, he'd finally begun to wonder if the authorities were still looking for him and if they really were right on his tail, as he'd been so convinced. Upon reaching Salem, he began noticing the scenery around him more, almost enjoying it. As he passed near the Mark Twain National Forest, he began relaxing a little more, driving somewhat slower so he could admire the fall-clad woodlands and rolling fields of grain ready for harvest. As he left the densely crowded cities behind, the stores and shopping centers became few and far between.

Finally, almost to Branson, his stomach's growling became too much to bear. He pulled the car to a stop on the side of the road and rummaged through the coolers and food tote in the back seat. How was he out of food already, he wondered in dismay? He should still at least have a couple of slices of bread and some sandwich meat leftover from that mini-mart a couple of days before…. He smacked his forehead in frustration. That's right. The meat had gone rancid when the ice melted away, and the bread had gotten moldy shortly after. He hadn't seen a store of any type in miles and didn't expect to see one anytime soon.

Scrambling for a solution, he wracked his brain for any memory of wild edibles he'd recognize. Persimmons grew in this area of the country, he remembered, and they were edible. So were many of the wild berries one would find here. It wasn't exactly sanitary to eat fruit right off the branch without washing it thoroughly, but he would have to make do. Promising himself that he'd start foraging if he didn't find any sign of civilization within an hour, he pulled back onto the road and continued his way.

About half-an-hour later, somewhere between Timberlake road, Sunset Inn road, and the very outskirts of Downtown Branson, he came upon a welcome sight. A large, well-kept stone cottage stood in a small clearing a short distance from the dead-end road. Just around the corner, stacked railroad ties hinted at a raised kitchen garden, no doubt packed with edibles ready for harvest. An oversized three-car garage and shop looked out of place at the end of the private drive, the outside cleared of weeds and debris. Out back, just beyond the fenced dog-yard, a black walnut tree, an apple tree, and a healthy black cherry tree loomed over the top of the roof. The apples would be in season, he mused, as would the walnuts. If he couldn't find any windfall or low, laden branches, he could at least hope they had a store of the harvest in storage. He hated the idea of stealing to live what with the death sentence waiting for him but he wasn't exactly unused to it; he was running out of options, too.

He parked the car near the road, just beyond the mailbox and behind a screen of Black Locust trees. As he crept up to the cottage, he kept his eyes peeled while darting from tree to tree. The house was dark, still and empty; a light was on in the closed garage, which rang with Alice Cooper's "Stolen Prayer," racket from an old, rickety box fan, and what sounded like an air compressor. The occupant of the garage was nowhere in sight, and would likely be too distracted by their work to notice his presence. If they did notice him, he saw no indication of security cameras and no warning signs about trespassing; he could always claim ignorance. He stealthily crept around to the garden. To his painful disappointment, it appeared to have been ransacked by a wild animal; nothing had been left standing but empty wire supports and labeled wooden stakes. The worst-hit, he could tell, were the bedraggled corn plants laying lifelessly by the fence. Further back, he scoped out the trees; all the harvest low enough to reach had been retrieved, and no windfall surrounded the walnut tree. He was screwed, royally.

Too tired and too hungry to care about getting caught trespassing, he sank to the ground, sitting on the edge of one of the raised garden beds. What was the point in going on? Why did he keep trying, keep pushing and pushing to escape the law? It would be so much easier to just give up the ghost and starve to death, and likely more pleasant, considering the beautiful countryside he found himself in. Maybe he should just contact Minion with the watch one last time, say goodbye, and find a nice, warm place to curl up and call it quits….

This train of thought was interrupted by what sounded like a stampede of buffalo heading his direction. Glancing up in confusion, he found himself face to face with the _biggest dog_ he'd _ever seen._ With a fearful squawk, he fell to the dirt and crab-scrambled away from the drooling behemoth, noting the shredded left ear and the multitude of scars littering its brindle and white flesh. The dog pursued him, backed him up to another wall of ties and a bedraggled tomato plant, and sniffed him over. He cringed at how close it was to him, and silently prayed for his death to be quick.

His aggressor lashed his cheek with a tongue wet with drool.

Megamind winced at the cold slobber now coating his cheek and studied the grinning dog in curiosity. Maybe it wasn't going to kill him? Maybe it was just going to slime him and let him go? An abrupt whistle from the garage sent the oversized puppy dancing around and barking, and his blood went cold in fear; he hadn't noticed that the music had stopped.

"Hey, Killer!" called a young woman as she ambled awkwardly toward them, her hands, arms, and stained coveralls covered with swathes of tiny red, white, and blue paint specks. "Ya find that damn' 'coon what's been eatin' all the corn?" She slowed to a stop upon seeing that her dog had cornered a brown-haired man up against one of the ransacked garden beds, and was vying for attention from both his owner and the odd visitor. "Kilroy, _heel._ " The dog whined and shuffled about but obeyed anyway, sitting on his haunches beside her, his tongue lolling out in a grin. "Ya lost, Mister?" she asked warily, noticing his oddly vibrant green eyes, the dirt that had gotten smeared all over him in his retreat, and his worn clothing. It seemed he was all skin and bones, she realized in pity. When had this man eaten last?

As the odd woman sized him up, Megamind examined her just as closely. She was rather short, even compared to him, and had been blessed with both childbearing hips and a generous bust. Her black hair was slicked to her neck and brow with sweat, but several thick navy and burgundy streaks shone brightly from the black shag. Her right ear bore a single steel stud in the lobe, but her left ear bore several piercings: a matching stud in the lobe, two steel hoops and three steel studs lining the edge upward, and an engraved steel cuff up at the top. The dirty navy cargo shorts she wore exposed a black tribal-style tattoo — a bird, possibly a raven — sprawling from her left knee almost to her ankle. She wiped her hands on her stained work shirt and bent to stare him in the eyes. She glanced silently from one eye to the other, then snorted and stood back up again; those eyes of hers were beautiful…intelligent, and surprisingly dark blue in color.

"A'right, you," she half-scolded. "Yer breathin', so ya ain't _dead_ , and ya made eye contact, so ya didn't _pass out_ with yer _eyes_ open. Quit playin' possum a'ready, and c'mon inside afore ya catch your death out here. It gets cold quick this time of year, an' we' got rain movin' in." He considered his options for a moment, watching the dog warily. "Don' worry 'bout ol' Kilroy, here. He's jus' a big softy…too big a softy to catch that _damn_ raccoon that keeps raidin' m' garden. If he ain't gonna chase off the 'Coon from Hell, then you ain't got nothin' to worry 'bout. You got two choices here…You kin git into that kitchen and eat your fill, or you kin _git the heck_ off'a my turf." He looked up at her, startled. She was offering to feed him? After finding him trespassing? She held out one callused, paint-spattered hand, expectantly. Warily, he accepted the hand up, and followed her, curious at her mild but noticeable limp.

Kilroy bounded ahead of them, and once the door was open, he took off for a large purple dog bed by the fireplace, circling and flopping into a comfortable sprawl. Megamind followed her to the kitchen, keeping a wary eye on the old TV in the living room; a commercial about football was playing, but he couldn't shake the feeling of dread the appliance evoked in him. He followed her into a room thick with the fragrance of oranges, apples, and spices, and to a lesser extent, roast beef.

In the tidy kitchen, she shooed him over to the small table in the corner and hustled to the slow-cooker beside a burner of simmering potpourri oil. "Lucky fer you, I had a hankerin' for pot roast this week," she smirked, pulling her hair back with a headband and scrubbing her hands and arms clean at the sink with Lava soap. She poked and scraped at the chunk of meat in the crock, stabbed a couple of potatoes, green beans, and carrots, then pronounced it finally done. "An' it only took a whole night's cookin'," she grinned, collecting bowls from a cabinet and serving up slices of beef with lots of veggies and broth.

"Thank you," he said quietly as he accepted the bowl. She grinned mischievously.

"He talks! I was startin' ta wonder if ya couldn't."

Megamind almost cried when he took his first bite of the garlic doused meat; it was _awful_. She'd used enough garlic to kill every bird in a five-mile radius! _How_ had he not _smelled it?!_ As hungry as he was, though, even leather would've passed as edible. How long had it been since he had a hot meal? Other than the time he decided to cook a carton of eggs on the dashboard of the car and ended up sick for a week, he couldn't remember.

The odd young woman watched him curiously as she poured him a large glass of chilled sweet tea and cut him a chunk of warm cornbread from the oven. "'pendin' on how long it's been since you ate a full meal, ya might oughta slow down a bit," she warned when she realized that he was scarfing down the meal as quickly as possible. "Don' wantcha to get sick or whatnot. That's never good." Her warning was sound, as was her logic, so he forced himself to slow down.

"Ya ain't from 'round here, are ya?" she continued, setting up a bowl of her own. He debated, then shook his head. "Didn't think so. Where ya from?" Trying to find a way to answer without revealing too much, he took his time chewing. Though the beef had been seasoned to death, the sweet cornbread was delightful.

"Up north. Long ways from here." She fixed him with a scrutinizing gaze.

"'Up north' as in 'St. Joe,' up north as in 'Iowa or Minnesota,' or up north as in 'we kin blame you for that _knucklehead_ Bieber?'" He couldn't help chuckling at the snarky comment. To his surprise, she cringed as she took a bite of roast. _"Ech._ Hate garlic." Curious at the conflicting facts, he filed the response away for later.

"In the US, just a different state," he conceded. "I've been living on the road for a while, though. Just haven't found anywhere to grow roots yet."

 _"_ _Missour-uh's_ a great place to grow roots, I gotta admit." He blinked at her pronunciation of the state's name but dug into his meal again. "No place quite like it anywhere. Once ya grow roots here, the rocky dirt ain't very willin' to let ya yank'em up again." He smiled at the joke, mopping up the last of the beef broth with the last of his cornbread. Her humor was refreshing, really. He'd gone so long without really talking with anyone unless it involved his trek to safety or provisions for said trek. He never thought it would happen, but he was lonely…he'd missed having someone to talk to. Even in the prison, he'd at least had the guards and Warden to taunt and tease.

His unlikely host had finished her meal as well and slipped into the living room after putting their bowls in the dishwasher. "Been a big storm system movin' in for a while," she explained as she turned up the TV. "I'm really hopin' it waits till after the game, seein' as it's Rams and Chiefs; major rivalry, always makes things—" She fell silent at the breaking news report that had popped up yet again. It had been playing non-stop for a few months, now, and was getting old.

 _"_ _If you see anyone wearing this watch,"_ the announcer warned, _"call your local police station or the FBI tipline. This watch belongs to a wanted man from Michigan and reportedly enables him to copy another's appearance and take it as his own. Do NOT approach this criminal, he is to be considered armed and dangerous."_

Megamind hid in the corner of the kitchen, completely terrified. He'd overheard the broadcast…they hadn't given up on him…and now, the lovely, kind young woman who had brought him in, fed him a warm meal, and treated him as a neighbor…that young woman would be undoubtedly dialing the tip line on her phone, having recognized the watch. If he'd realized that the connection between the watch and his ability to change his appearance had been noted, he'd have covered it up, or worn it on his ankle or something. Now, it was too late.

The TV had switched to a Geico commercial in the midst of his panicking, and his attention was drawn to a loud _click_ from the doorway. Upon turning fearfully to identify the sound, he found himself staring down the barrel of a loaded shotgun.

* * *

> _**Up next:**_ **Sonja**


	2. Sonja

_This chapter dedicated to my lovely beta Lawren for her patience...and for not coming after me with a pitchfork for taking so long to update. Thanks, Hon!_

> **_Suggested Listening: Seether "See You At the Bottom,"_ _RUSH "One Little Victory"_ **

* * *

**2: Sonja**

Somewhere along the line, Megamind screwed up. Maybe he should've gone around Branson instead of through it? Maybe he should've just started foraging instead of looking for civilization a little longer. Maybe he should've declined the odd woman's offer of a meal, and hightailed it out of there. No matter where he went wrong, though, Megamind now stared his own death in the face, brought by a woman whose only crime was to offer him kindness. He forced a swallow, scrambling for a way to get out alive.

"What'd ya do," she asked bluntly. The question startled him. She held a gun to his head, and for all intents and purposes, looked ready to put a massive, messy hole in his skull. For all she knew, he could be armed to the gills and willing to kill anyone who got in his way. _"Answer,"_ she snapped, her eyes narrowing angrily as she cocked the hammer.

"I…I seized control of Metrocity, Michigan, by _dee-sposing_ of the hero who watched over it—"

"You _killed_ him?" she interrupted skeptically, shooting him a hairy-eyeball stare. He shook his head frantically.

 _"No!_ I found him later on…he faked his death! He had everyone, _me included,_ convinced I _had_ killed him! Even when I begged him to come out of hiding, and prove that I wasn't a murderer, he _ree-foosed!"_

"So you've never killed anyone."

"No…I've robbed, stolen, caused all sorts of mayhem, chaos, and damage to public buildings and _civil-yawn_ vehicles, but I've never intentionally hurt anyone, other than that lout…" he scoffed at the thought. "…and I was never even able to put a scratch on him, anyway. He _is_ the _in-soofer-able_ Metro Mahn, after all."

His host just stood in thought a moment, staring a hole in the table he cowered behind. Slowly, her eyes calmed, and she raised the gun to rest harmlessly on her shoulder, engaging the safety. At the sound of tires crawling up the gravel driveway, though, she stiffened. She whipped out a hand and covered his mouth with it. "Stay quiet," she whispered harshly. "I helped you. For your own sake, do exactly as I say and don't ask questions." He nodded fearfully. "Follow quickly, and stay low!"

His host hurried into the living room, shotgun over one shoulder; he followed her into what appeared to be a small office of sorts off the living room. She left the lights off, yanked the curtains shut, and hurried around behind the corner desk that divided the room, propping the firearm on the arms safe behind the desk. She planted her rear in the swiveling desk chair and kicked a warm blanket away from the foot-well of the desk, then pushed down on the carpeted floor. Two edges popped up, and she lifted them away, revealing that the carpet and blanket hid a split trap door. Below, a set of stone steps led down into a dark cavern beneath the house. "Get in! Make sure the door's locked, hide, an' douse the light — _scram!"_

Once his head cleared, she lowered the camouflaged doors back in place and pressed down to reengage the latch. She hastily rearranged the blanket over it again, opened the laptop on the desk, and started booting Windows as she got comfortable in the task chair. When the first set of booming knocks sounded, her now bare feet were buried in the blanket under her desk and her screen displayed a blog discussing the pros and cons of specialty paint versus airbrushing. As the visitor rattled the front door again, she steeled her nerves, willing her captive to stay absolutely quiet.

"Be right there!" she hollered, taking as much time as she could to get to the front door; the fugitive in her cellar would need every moment he could get. Kilroy was pacing by the front door growling, his hackles raised and his teeth bared. Wonderful…That musclebound jackass had no idea how good his timing was…and he wouldn't find out. She swung open the front door, rubbing the bridge of her nose with her fingertips as she did. Let him think she had a headache…maybe he'd leave sooner. 'An' maybe I have _Pennywise the Dancing Clown_ hiding out underneath my house,' she thought sarcastically.

"Officer Heckerman," she half croaked, squinting at him through the screen door. "How's it you only visit on days 'at I got a migraine?" The deputy laughed at the comment; she winced for good measure. "'s there somethin' you need, or can I reschedule my weekly stalkin' for a later date?"

"You sure do have the _weirdest_ sense of humor, _So-in-ya!_ " he drawled, his usual overly-loud voice eliciting another faked wince. "Can't I just drop by to see my gal once in a while?" He punctuated the question by leaning on the doorframe, showing off his toned arms and torso. Sonja fought the urge to roll her eyes.

"Hugh," she answered exasperatedly, "fer the last time, I ain't your GAL."

" _So-in-ya_ , my cruiser ain't never had no other gal's hands on its engine but yours…" he replied slyly. "That makes you my girl."

"No, dipshit, 'at makes me an idjit for agreeing to repair it for ya after ya wrecked it durin' an illegal street race, off duty. Ya still owe me five hun'red on that, ya know. Them parts ain't cheap."

"No, my dear," he leered, "they're not cheap…these parts of mine are solid gold, which'll make you the richest woman in town once you get your hands on'em." Sonja's eyes flashed in anger, and she stormed out onto the porch, making sure Kilroy couldn't slip out and chase the pest off. Knowing Hugh, he'd report that the dog had attacked without provocation, and needed to be euthanized immediately to protect those living nearby.

"You…" she snarled, backing the lewd idiot off her porch "…are a _disrespectful, disturbing,_ and _DISGUSTING_ excuse for a human being! Git yer ass offa my turf, 'afore I call the cops on yah… _again!"_

"I wouldn't do that if I were you…" he cautioned. "You see, I just passed an older model _Shever-o-lay_ on my way here…parked just before your drive, and appearing abandoned. The tags are out of date, and so's the only plate. The vehicle was traced back to a Mr. Arthur Brown, in Illinois…but the plate's from Kansas."

' _Shit,'_ she thought frantically.

"So seein' as there's an illegally parked vehicle with expired tags and an expired plate, likely stolen and ditched, I'm gonna have to investigate."

"Where's your warrant?" she glowered. "You won't find anything here, and this is the first I've heard of any Chevy _POS_ parked on my land."

"You can let me do the search, Ms. Merlo," he warned darkly, "or you can say goodbye to that blasted mongrel of yours." She paled at the familiar threat. "After all, he's a vicious brute; he's clearly a hazard to the neighboring community. What would happen if he got loose and mauled one of them little girls that live nearby…the Rogers' kids. Hm? Would you want that on your head?"

Sonja hated the smooth-talking Texan…and this was why. He wouldn't take no for an answer and did everything he could to ensure he'd get his way, whether it was legal or not. The one time she turned him in for his crimes against her, she found Kilroy unconscious and bleeding in the driveway upon returning home from a run to the bank. Kilroy didn't have an aggressive bone in his body. He tended to overwhelm people with his excited demands for attention and was afraid of other dogs, so she'd usually left him in the fenced yard for errands. Kilroy was intentionally released from the dog run — and his attacker kicked, hit, and pepper-sprayed him, and repeatedly swiped at him with some sort of bladed weapon; tire tracks showed that the person also tried to run him over on their way out, but only succeeded in clipping him and leaving behind a loosened license plate.

While Killer recuperated in the veterinary hospital, Sonja confronted the owner of the plate; Hugh claimed that he'd been by to visit, caught the perpetrator in the act, pursued them in his cruiser, and lost track of them when dispatch called in orders. She knew he was lying…Killer's aggression toward him after recovering from his injuries was proof enough. Hugh tried to kill her dog because she lodged a complaint against him; she feared what might happen if she turned him in again.

With her heart in her throat, Sonja led Kilroy by the collar to the back door and locked him out on the screened in porch; as she slid the glass door shut, he watched her with hurt brown eyes and pitiful whimpers. As she'd expected, Hugh had already let himself in and was studying her home's layout with interest that hadn't faded after dozens of such illegal searches.

"Git on wi' it, Hugh," she spat irritably, no longer having to fake her headache. "I don't get much downtime durin' fall, an' you're wastin' my only day off this week." Hugh was already in the small kitchen, investigating the contents of the old crock pot.

"Smells _dee-lightful,"_ he grinned, inhaling the hearty aroma of the still warm beef and the sweet, spicy potpourri nearby; he snagged a fork from the dish drainer and reached in to skewer a potato and a loose curl of beef. Sonja narrowed her eyes at his audacity from the doorway, crossing her arms and leaning against the doorframe. As he chewed the bite, however, the scowl she wore morphed into a malicious sneer. "This beef is marvelous, _So-in-ya_!" he raved, fishing around for another piece of said beef. "With talent like that, you should be a chef, not some no-name grease-monkey. What'd you season this with, anyway?" She wiped the sneer away just in time, instead adopting an expression of boredom and irritation.

"Oh, the usual," she answered mildly, ignoring the 'no-name grease-monkey' comment. Her shop brought in more in a week than he made in a _month,_ even _without_ back-to-back customs jobs. "Salt. Pepper. Rosemary…and _Garlic_." He choked on the bite of carrot, his skin blanching significantly. " _Lots_ and _lots_ of _Garlic_." Hugh finally realized that his suddenly stuffy nose was not because of the pungent potpourri, but because he ingested GARLIC.

 _"You bitch!"_ he hollered, staggering for the front door. "I'm _allergic to garlic!_ _You know I'm allergic to it!"_

"….an' YOU know it's bad manners to force your way into someone's home an' help yourself to their supper, Hugh," she drawled from the front porch, a scathing glare fastened on him. "Yet ya do it anyway. You' got yerself to blame for this, an' yerself alone—Now git yer ass to the hospital 'fore you start hyperventilatin' like last time." Hugh Heckerman fumbled in the console of his cruiser for the epinephrine kit he kept in there, only to remember he still hadn't picked the new prescription up from the pharmacy. Amidst an endless stream of profanities, he backed out onto the main road, clipping her battered mailbox on his way out.

Sonja glared after the vehicle till it disappeared in the tree line, then dug out her cell phone, dialing registration in the ER at the local hospital, where her friend Kathy worked. "Hey, Kath?" Sonja explained when the chipper blonde picked up. "Won't keep ya—just figured I'd give ya a head's up that Heckerman's barreling your way needing an epi-shot. Dug in without askin'; you know the rest. Yeah, yeah, slap 'im for me…and see if you can get Rick to write on his face with a permanent marker if he passes out— _lyin' douchebag_ 'll work—have'im send me photos. Thanks, Sister…bye."

Frustration souring her stomach, Sonja let Kilroy in off the porch. Returning to the office, she retrieved her shotgun, then flipped a switch discreetly hidden behind the door. She locked up the office, creeping down the hallway into her bedroom. At the back of her closet lay another trap door, identical to the one in the office. Shotgun at the ready, she stealthily crept into the dim cavern she locked her green-eyed visitor in, Kilroy at her heels.

* * *

Down below the remote cabin, Megamind trembled in a dark, dusty nook beneath a dusty stone staircase. The cellar was pitch black now that the lantern was off, and, apparently, partly soundproofed - he couldn't hear anything from above other than the occasional footstep. Suddenly shouting echoed through the cabin. The surprise visitor stomped through the living room, and the front door slammed violently. All was silent, still; he held his breath, trying to filter out any suspicious sounds beneath the white noise around him. So many sounds broke the silence; was the cellar truly safe, as noisy as it was? A refrigerator buzzed nearby, accompanied by a humming water heater. Just overhead, Kilroy's claws clicked maddeningly on the hardwood floors.

Out of the blue, a series of fluorescent lights scattered along the crooked corridor buzzed to life, revealing what had been hidden; still crouched in the dusty nook under the steps, he glanced around curiously.

Directly across from him, the massive, ancient-looking iron door remained bolted shut, forbidding in its permanence. The walls along the corridor were lined with ceiling-height wooden shelves packed with a massive stockpile of provisions. Canned goods, jugs of water, dog food, ammunition, other necessities for survival...and if he wasn't mistaken, he'd just located two harvests' worth of apple sauce, dried apples, cherry jam, and roasted, shelled walnuts. With every glance, he saw more and more stockpiled provisions: batteries, first aid supplies, fuel, burlap bags of dried beans, corn, peanuts, rice...He shook his head in disbelief. Was she expecting the _zombie apocalypse?!_

As he settled in again, a glint of light caught his eye; the unnaturally bright light glinted eerily off visible portions of the rough stone walls and the even rougher carved steps.

 _Stone?_ Mesmerized, he crept from his hiding place over to the nearest bare wall, a patch above a bin of seasoned wood chips. Native granite, he decided; the house must have been built over a naturally occurring cave, and the builders finished the cavern as a sort of basement.

At his back, someone cleared their throat. He fully expected to find himself nose to nose with the shotgun again, confronted by his host and her unexpected guest. To his surprise, though, she was alone, the safety was still on, and she held the firearm securely over one shoulder. Nothing in her expression or bearing was threatening, though her eyes were embarrassed.

"Now that my _shit-head_ stalker's out'a the way," she smiled wryly, scratching her dog behind the ears, "we can talk." He considered her a moment, struggling to wrap his head around what had just happened.

"Stalker?"

"Yeah..." She lumbered over to the heavy iron door, favoring her tattooed leg even more than earlier. The deadbolt squealed in protest as she unlocked the door, inviting him into what turned out to be a much larger, well-appointed living space. Ducking around a large folding table, a couple bins of nuts and apples from the tree out back, and stacked bags of ice-melt, potting soil, and dog kibble, she carefully lowered herself to the faded futon couch. She cringed as she propped her left leg on a scuffed vinyl footstool, but gestured for him to sit anywhere.

"His name's Hugh Heckerman," she explained tiredly, rubbing the massive scar her raven tattoo hid. "He's a deputy - supposedly first in line when chief Walker retires - and he's as crooked as the day is long. I made the mistake of coverin' for him, once - he told me the damage to his cruiser was from an on-duty accident and the shop on call was swamped. Long story short, I rebuilt his engine, only to find out he'd wrecked it off duty, in an illegal street race, an' instead of turnin' his lyin' ass in, I let it go." She cringed suddenly, digging her fingertips in deeper, trying to massage away a muscle spasm; she really hadn't needed stairs today.

"Well," she continued. "'bout that time, he decided I was hot stuff, an' tried convincin' me to date him – after all, payin' for parts an' labor ain't somethin' 'couples' do. No amount'a no's has gotten through to'im, but at least I figured out his weakness." Her grin was halfway between devious and sadistic - his heart fluttered as his pulse went through the roof. "He's allergic to garlic - VERY allergic - but he still thinks he can just invite himself in, bully my dog, an' eat my food without a fight. He's probably at the hospital now, gettin' an epi." Despite the precarious situation, Megamind laughed.

"You _poisoned him?"_ he almost cackled.

"Nope," she grinned shamelessly. "I didn't do a damn thing...he poisoned himself. I just didn't tell'im it had garlic in it 'till his third bite…and hid the garlic stank with an oil burner…oh, an' I tol'im yesterday I was out'a garlic…but that's it, really."

"You are _truly evil –_ You _must_ tell me your secret!" His smile faltered. "Still...you had an officer here - a member of law enforcement - and you didn't turn me in. Why?" She avoided his eyes, inviting her dog up into the sagging sofa beside her; as she petted him, Kilroy stared up from her knee with adoring brown eyes.

"I've kinda lost my faith in the system, really," she admitted quietly. "Every time I've counted on the law, it's let me down. I broke a guy's nose for tryin' to mug me and got stuck with assault charges. Some drunk bitch rammed my truck an' I was blamed 'cause I was tired. I've reported Heckerman, too..." She reflexively held the dog tightly, her eyes dark. "Killer nearly died for it, an' the chief believes that _bastard_ over me. Can ya blame me for bein' wary of the cops?" She glanced sharply at him.

"Not really," he answered wryly. "But if I'm caught — if the law finds out you knowingly sheltered me, you'll be arrested—slapped with obstruction of justice charges at the least!"

"…And if _Peckerhead_ found out ya were here," she shot back, "that'd be one more thing he had against me. If I turn his ass in again, he'll take me an' Killer down with'im. If he finds ya here," She scowled darkly, rhythmically clenching her fingertips into her calf out of frustration. "it'll jus' add to the blackmail I'm already fightin'. Trust me, I ain't gonna turn ya out, but it ain't jus' for you…I'm savin' my own ass, too." As vehement as she'd been, Megamind finally gave in; horrible as it sounded, she stood to lose if he were caught as well, and so was less likely to turn him in. He felt rather bitter about the whole deal, but at least he was safe.

"Well," he admitted softly, "act of mercy or no, I thank you...for hiding me, and feeding me." She shrugged but grinned wolfishly.

"Don't mention it...the roast'll go away faster with two people...an' it REALLY needs to go away." She laughed aloud despite herself; it was a sad fate for roast beef. Heaving herself to her feet, she smacked her thigh to call the dog, leading Megamind to the flight of bricked stairs in the far corner. "He'll spend seven to ten days nursin' his bruised ego, then he'll get stupid again. Till then we eat GOOD food an' plot our next move. By the way…name's Sonja—Sonja Meliora Merlo."

"That's a mouthful," he remarked with a grin; she smirked back at him.

"Thank my Uncle Jack…he insisted I needed a middle name that wasn't totally bogus, said it means 'always improving.' Ma wanted to name me 'Sonja Angela Merlo' to ward off 'bad juju.' She's nuckin'-futz. So what's your name?" He winced slightly.

"Megamind," he admitted quietly; though she said nothing, she grinned at his answer.

'Some ego he's got,' she thought, fighting a laugh. 'All those brains, an' he thought I'd turn'im in.'

Megs never planned on staying anywhere long—he planned to barrel right through until he hit the border, then find a way to safety. Of course, the best-laid plans can wind up going awry. No matter what happened, no matter what it took, he _had_ to keep trying…and he _had_ to find _Minion_ , come Hell or high water.

* * *

> **_Up Next:_ Calamity **


	3. Calamity

_This story's still in that awkward stage I tend to struggle with - the first several chapters don't come easily and are a PitA to muddle through, but when the setup is over (usually 4-6 chapters in...?) it's a lot easier and updates are more common. In the meantime, thank you for reading, I hope to hear from ya, and hope everyone's had a good summer!_

_**A quick disclaimer:** Sonja rides a motorcycle and drives like a maniac, but MOST bikers DON'T drive like maniacs. Sonja's just a maniac. Don't be like Sonja._

_This chapter dedicated to my Uncle H. for nurturing my fascination with classic cars before I could even tell the difference between an El Camino and a Ranchero - I miss ya, y'old hippie. Also dedicated to my father for being such a sport about adding dozens of makes, models, and builds to the classic 'punch-buggy' game...and for not getting pissy whenever his teenage daughter poked him every time a Mustang drove past._

> _**Suggested Listening: David Bowie "Rebel Rebel,"** _

* * *

**3: Calamity**

To his surprise, the trap door Megamind's reluctant hostess swung open let them out in the middle of a large walk-in pantry off the kitchen. In the ruckus before, she shoved him through a trapdoor in the office into a long, narrow space, then later she approached him from a second trap door at the opposite end, then she led him through an ancient metal door into a much larger space renovated into a basement of sorts. Now she was leading him up yet another trap door into the kitchen! "How many hidden doors does this place have?" he asked dubiously, wondering if he should start checking for secret passages and two-way mirrors everywhere. She shrugged, carefully lowering the heavy door back to the floor by the iron handle.

"Technically, only two," she answered letting the handle fall back into its depression with a noisy _clang._ "I found the cellars after I bought the place - before I even put in carpet." She gave a sheepish smile. "Got a phone call that left me so pissed I was stompin' everywhere an' almost went through the office floor." She ducked into the office long enough to lock the shotgun back in its safe, then led him out the back door. "No one knew 'bout the cellars, not even the realtor. Apparently, there was a big-ass manor built here long ways back; after it burnt down, an' this place was built, things got hairy."

"Hairy?" he echoed dubiously as visions of giant rats and hordes of giant furry tarantulas skittered through his imagination. "How so?"

"Prohibition-type hairy, apparently," Sonja grinned waving him through the dog-run** gate. "When I got down there, that big cave was chock-full'a moonshine an' brewin' equipment, long abandoned. The owners must'a taken the secret with'em. The local historical society had a field day excavatin' that cellar."

"Then the cellars aren't a secret?!" His voice cracked from fear of discovery. "I—!"

"Chill, Pennywise,"* she interrupted shortly; the tease caught him off guard and left him blinking at her in surprise. "Plurals aren't just fer looks...only the bigger cellar's been leaked. Far as the society knows that door's been locked these past decades, there ain't no key, an' I'm too damn stubborn to let'em call a locksmith. Only three other people've known I got access to that place: my dad, my brother, an' my uncle…an' he's gone." She faltered at the phrase, clearly remembering something painful, then pasted on a wolfish grin. "Dad an' Jason ain't gonna say a word, either—They're too skeered'a me."

'Does she greet _everyone_ with a shotgun to the face, then?' he wondered nervously. It would certainly explain some things. At that point, they reached the garage and any further thoughts fell silent as he crossed the threshold. The workshop was a mechanic's fondest dream—several racks of quality tools, workbenches, even a custom pit and vinyl-enclosed painting booth. Just inside the main door stood a half-assembled vehicle somewhat resembling an old fridge; in the painting booth, the flat stainless steel hood sat propped up on sawhorses, the first coat of grey primer curing.

"She's a _DeLorean DMC-12,"_ Sonja explained trailing her fingertips over one car's scuffed stainless steel gullwing door, up the bridge to the roof, then around the door's hinge. "Got a lotta cosmetic work left an' most'a the painting, but we'll manage—It's too late to get'er finished for the Detroit convention this year but I should have'er done by the one in Houston if she ain't a bitch about paintin'."

"So you're a mechanic, then?" he asked, then forced his eyes back to the bench he was inspecting. His petite host was bent over the front bumper at the waist, buried up to the shoulders in the exposed guts of the engine compartment. Her mouth was a little much to get used to, but she certainly had a nice backside. He always appreciated a nice backside.

"More'n a mechanic," Sonja explained shooting him a cheeky grin he didn't see, then shrugged in disinterest; at least he wasn't staring at her. "Started out a mechanic an' it nearly cost me my leg. Moved onto customs work, own my own shop now. This bein' a tourist town, we don't get a lotta jobs durin' the off-seasons, an' restoration projects keep me from gettin' bored."

The conversation continued one-sided, Megamind losing focus on it. His eyes, after all, found something a bit more interesting than her long-winded explanation of why painting DeLoreans had to be approached differently than painting any other car. **#** Over in the far corner, a large shapeless lump was draped with a vinyl cover, a hint of black rubber and shining chrome peeking through underneath…wheels, and from the looks of it, three of them. Keeping one eye locked on Sonja, he crept over and eased the cover aside; with the first glimpse of navy and electric blue, the tug sharpened into a yank and the cover fluttered to the floor.

It was… _oh,_ it was _beautiful_. His throat caught at the sight of the vehicle, a beautifully restored classic Harley Softail with a custom sidecar. The paint job was sweet—sleek metallic black airbrushed with vibrant blue flames—and— He froze, unable to believe what he was seeing and sure his eyes must be playing tricks on him. Completely oblivious to Sonja's continuing monologue, he reached out a trembling hand and wistfully traced an impossibly familiar decal—custom chrome lettering spanning the length of the sidecar, the name framed in stylized flames.

As though summoned by Megamind's disbelief, the sound of a stampeding buffalo thundered into the garage. Kilroy bolted toward the bike, nearly bowling him over, and launched himself into the sidecar; sitting upright on the seat set with canvas straps and metal clip hooks, the Dane mix grinned at Megamind, tongue lolling and eyes bright. The disguised alien stared, struggled to comprehend what he was seeing. Behind him, Sonja was finally silent, her eyes locked on him in open suspicion. He couldn't explain himself—he turned to her, eyes wide and spine slack, but only managed to get out one simple phrase:

_"It's you."_

* * *

> _**A few years before – Metro City, Michigan** _

Megamind just escaped from prison that morning; the last place he expected to find himself was the parking lot of a remote fast-food joint, alone, sitting on a curb trying to convince himself to return to the Evil Lair. Of course, he didn't walk there just for kicks—it was Minion's fault for suggesting maybe they should lay low for a while. The very memory irritated Megamind. As though the dimwitted creation of science could understand anything without it being explained to him first…Megamind's ongoing battle with Metro Man was far more pressing than the bruised ribs he sustained in the latest escape. They couldn't let something like this stop them, not when their final victory was so close at hand—so close he could practically taste it!

The near-deafening rumble of a well-maintained motorcycle split the air; moments after, a classic Harley decked in black and blue flames peeled into the parking lot. The rider wrenched off their open-face helmet—black airbrushed with matching blue flames—then their chunky goggles—chunky brassy frames and tinted glass lenses—and chucked both into the open sidecar. Megamind tore his eyes away, forcibly focusing on the grease-shiny pavement before him instead of the new arrival. Even clad in studded black leathers and thick-soled boots, her gender was obvious—as obvious as the neon blue, plum purple, and sleek black hair sticking out from under her skull-patterned hair scarf. She studied him a moment, seemingly considering approaching him, then ducked through the door of the restaurant leaving him to his thoughts…just as it should be, he considered with no small amount of bitterness.

A few minutes later, the bell over the door jingled again and a foreign pair of shoes entered his field of vision; by the time he recognized the chunky black boots, their owner gracelessly plopped down onto the curb beside him without a word. He looked up, aiming a glare at the biker but it was unreturned; instead, she held out a paper bag, already chowing down on a sizable burger from a larger bag. She waited a while for him to accept the smaller bag then shot him an incredulous glance. "What, ya vegan or somethin'?" she asked wiggling the bag at him. "Yer stomach's growlin'. Eat." Without another word, she returned to wolfing down her own meal, pausing only to pass him a foam cup of coffee when he reluctantly accepted the bag.

This…this was new, the alien considered scrutinizing the contents of the bag and the seal of the cup lid. The food didn't appear tampered with and the coffee cup showed no signs of it either—it probably wasn't poisoned, despite his suspicions of just that. Turning the cup in shaky hands, he noted loopy black markings scribbled on the far side—a 'smiley face' and the words 'Bet you've got one, too!' written in permanent marker. Despite himself, he felt the corners of his lips tug upward at the silliness. Through it all, the biker said nothing, only munched her fries and watched him askance with implausibly deep blue eyes.

"Looks like you've had a rough while, huh?" The words, void of accusation, blame, or pity, came once Megamind gave in to the demands of his stomach. It caught him by surprise how hungry he really was, so hungry he found himself practically inhaling his meal, too. It hit him a little late that the biker spoke to him, and he gave a faint nod. "Wanna bitch about it? May help."

 _"Comb-plane-ing_ …won't accomplish anything," he countered quietly, idly turning the coffee cup in his hands. By now, he and Minion would normally be holed up in the Lair, plowing their way through a mountain of donuts and a river of bad coffee, brainstorming for their next big scheme. Normally, however, Megamind didn't get careless in his escape, get hurt as a result, and get obnoxious because Minion worried about him.

"I hurt someone," he admitted, already half-empty coffee cup hanging slack in his hands, "someone dear to me. I didn't mean to hurt him…he just…" His face scrunched up, again rankled over Minion's unnecessary worrying and lack of faith in him. "He doesn't trust me. I had everything under control, I always do, but he—" He cut himself off, physically shaking some sense into himself and reminding himself that this biker, though unexpectedly kind, was a stranger to him. "We _arg-you-ed,_ I said some hurtful words. Now, here I am," he scoffed, one lanky arm swinging wide in a grandiose gesture to the grimy parking lot, _"soolking at McDonald's."_ The biker gave a small smirk at the last, lifting her soda cup in a classic _'amen to that'_ gesture. "What about you?" He half-expected her to correct him—he knew he was mispronouncing words again, it always got worse when he was upset—but she said nothing of it.

"Meh," she shrugged fishing through her bag for another fry. "Just passin' through. Brought my assistant an' my pup up for a weekend; we've got a sweet lil' piece for the convention in Detroit, hopin' to sell'er for a pretty penny." It took a moment but she registered the horrified expression on her inhuman companion's face; it took even longer to realize he thought she brought an actual _person_ up for sale. Chuckling at the idea, she set down her drink and fished through the inside pocket of her jacket, passing him a folded glossy flier. "She's a '70 Dodge Challenger _are-an'-tee_ convertible with 'shaker' hood-scoop, Rallye wheels, an' custom after-market interior," she explained pointing out the 'after' photo at the top. It showed a gleaming, beautiful, and obviously expensive vintage muscle car that was just familiar enough for him to halfway recognize. "Got'er at auction torn to bits—that's'er 'obit' photo down there—took a good three years but she lives again." She gave a crooked smile and chuckle. "That is one _sexy_ hunk'a metal, right?"

Megamind studied the photo, glanced warily at the strange biker, turned back the photo, and repeated the process. "It's a car," he deadpanned. "How's it _sexy?"_ She made an unimpressed _pfft_ noise.

"Just is," she answered as if the point was obvious. "Hell, if I hadn't kept this baby on home turf, my nutty receptionist would'a left _stains_ on those seats—it's just that gorgeous an' Reena's just that _nuts."_ Megamind's eyes warily rolled back to the photo.

"It's purple," he deadpanned, fixing a dubious cringe on her.

 _"Plum Crazy,"_ the biker bragged. "Classic _Challenger_ exterior coat, first model to ever wear it. Took months to find enough replacement paint, but the rich-bitches at auctions eat that stuff up like Doritos." Realizing a little belatedly that she was railroading the conversation, she cleared her throat, collected the flier and returned it to her pocket, and held out her bag of fries as a peace offering. "Sorry. Cars are my life, work, an' life's work. I run a customs shop down in the Ozark Mountains." He accepted another handful of fries, and a relieved smirk split her lips. She might have a nice smile if she didn't look so _smug,_ he considered facing the ground again.

In the distance, a church bell rang, the sound startling the strange biker; straining her ears, she silently counted out the tolls, the number triggering a wince. "Aw heck," she muttered slumping in her seat. "I told Alice I'd be a min, an' it's pushin' an hour…Killer's probably climbin' the walls. I better get goin'." She shoved the remainders of her fries into the second, larger paper bag and shakily lurched to her feet, grimacing as though in pain.

"I know right now things look pretty rough." The unexpected affirmation drew his attention back to her, and for the first time in years, he found himself speechless – not shocked or stunned, just lost for words. She was nothing like any of the women he was used to—nothing like Roxanne, from her sharp tongue and foul mouth to her rough and rugged style—he honestly wasn't sure whether this was a benefit to her or a fault, but little things caught his eyes. In the bright light and deep shadow of the grimy parking lot, the metal studs on her leather jacket shone like stars. Vibrantly dyed hair—plum purple, neon blue, and from the looks of it, a trace of hot pink paired with natural black—stuck out in stubborn cowlicks, tamed only by a skulls-and-paisley hair scarf. Just before he managed to tear his eyes away, a glint of silver caught his attention—several steel piercings lined the outside edge of her right ear, though what they were and what they numbered, he couldn't be sure. "Things'll get better in time," she reassured, breaking his concentration. "Just keep yer chin up an' keep on keepin' on, okay?"

"Now you're throwing _known-sense_ at me?" Megamind demanded with a scowl he didn't completely feel. "What could _possibly_ make you think my life will ever get _easier?_ I'm stuck on this planet— _your_ planet!—with no way home, no one in my _coor-ner,_ no one but—" His rant cut short in a horrified gasp; the unimpressed biker stood before him, the black denim of her jeans yanked up to her left knee. Now he knew for certain she was cringing in pain before—the massive, messy, knotted scar tissue sprawling from just below her knee to just above the cuff of her boot blew that doubt out of the water. It was highly insensitive, he was sure, but the sight of that massive scar, all puffy pale streaks and dark lumpy pits, turned his stomach.

"How do I know things'll get better?" The question, tinged with a sort of wry humor, tore his eyes from her mutilated shin back up to her eyes—beautiful eyes, especially compared to the twisted flesh on her leg. "Few years back, _this_ happened—jack failed, dropped a half-burnt half-rusted 'stang frame on me. I nearly lost my leg." She crouched a bit, easing the black denim back down and smoothing her pant-leg. "I _didn't_ lose it—I healed. Yeah, it's _fuckin' hideous,_ but it's _mine_ an' I can walk on it." Her eyes softened as he stood, but his were drawn back to her leg, recalling vividly the damaged skin behind her clothing. He shuddered to consider how extensive the damage to her leg must have been if it resulted in scars like that.

"I spent a stupid-long time on crutches," she added when it became clear he had no words. "I had to go under the knife more times than I care to count, got too many stitches to remember, an' I still gotta suffer through physical therapy on a regular basis. Was a time I thought things'd never get better." Her lips quirked upward, her solemn expression replaced with a confident smirk. "They got better anyway. Jus' give it time an' yer problems'll get easier, too."

Megamind had no words—this being struck speechless was irritating, considering he always considered himself above-par when it came to banter. Even with all his skill, he could only think of one thing to say—one phrase, and it seemed horribly inadequate. "Thank you." The biker snorted in laughter taking the last steps over to her bike, tucked her bag of food and empty cup into the foot-well of the sidecar, and retrieving her helmet and goggles.

"Eh, it's nothin'," she remarked buckling the equipment in place with practiced ease. She swung her leg up over the saddle and got situated, preparing to take off; with her key in the ignition, she hesitated, frowning down at the stereo mounted to her steering column. Before he could get out a word, she turned to him again. "Ya need a ride anywhere? She seats three an' I've got time."

After a moment's consideration, he decided it was worth it. One look at the sidecar's interior, however, derailed his intent to crawl in—it stank of wet dog and there were heavy canvas straps set into the upholstery with metal clips sewn in. "Oh, right," the biker muttered sheepishly upon registering his incredulous expression. "That's Killer's seat. If the smell bothers ya, you can always just ride bitch."

"Ride… _what?"_ Her answer was to jab her thumb at the seat behind her. Right – the bike was a two-seater. Embarrassed, he gingerly mounted the bike behind her, silently searching for somewhere to put his hands. As he awkwardly experimented with holding onto various parts of the bike within reach, she reached down into the sidecar, hoisted the seat forward, and fished something out of the small storage space behind it. The helmet she shoved at him threw him off.

"What?" the biker demanded with a smirk. "I'm unfiltered, not oblivious—it's illegal to ride without a helmet. Don't worry, this ain't the dog's, it's the spare." With a sheepish smile, he tried to squash the helmet onto his head; naturally, this didn't work too well, as helmets weren't made with his oversized skull in mind. Finally, he settled for prying out the foam removable foam padding and buckling it in place. "That's an awkward fit," the biker remarked, but shrugged it off and moved on.

The engine roared at the first turnover, a strong vibration sending chills up Megamind's spine. At the last moment, the stranger reached back, grabbed his hands, and planted them on her hips squeezing to encourage him to latch on. "Hang on tight back there," she grinned over her shoulder. "Calamity's got some real attitude!" He cringed, torn between nerves and embarrassment.

 _"Calamity?"_ In response, she reached down to the steering column, switched on the custom stereo, and flipped through the display. As the first notes of David Bowie's "Rebel Rebel" started screaming out of the speakers, she kicked off and peeled out of the parking lot, laughing aloud at the panicked screeches from behind her.

* * *

By the time they hit the highway, Megamind's terror was fully transitioned into excitement. At first, all he could think of was how much danger they were in—how reckless it was to be tearing down the highway in the dark and how little effort the strange woman put into turns. Now he was noticing other things, more subtle things. The wind in his ears, the scent of motor oil and citrus from the woman whose backside he was fairly plastered to, the rumble of the engine and the singing of tires on asphalt – this was something he could definitely get used to.

With a sharp but well-executed turn, they veered off the interstate into the nearly vacant warehouse district. Adrenaline flooding his blood and a wide grin cracking at the corners of his lips, Megamind impulsively let out an excited _whoop_ ; before it faded, the biker replied with a rebel yell of her own, punching the air for effect. Seeing her hand leave the handlebars triggered another panicked screech, and she replied with laughter.

In moments like this, Megamind could see beyond all his struggles – he could see past Metrocity and how poorly the citizens treated him from the very start, and fool himself that life could someday get better. Moments like this made him feel grateful to be alive, no matter how horrible his life normally was – it made it worth living.

* * *

When they reached the corner of Eighth and Baker – not too close to the Lair, but close enough to make it home on foot without too much risk of discovery – the bike idled to a stop and its owner turned to help pry the helmet and goggles off his head. Even as he slid off the seat, landed on shaky legs and nearly fell flat on his rear, he couldn't stop grinning. "That's an impressive machine you've got here," he remarked, partly to detract attention from his leaning on the saddle to keep himself upright.

"Thanks," the stranger returned. She didn't miss the way the alien studied the custom paint job, almost wistfully tracing the airbrushed blue flames. "Her name's from Bowie," she added gesturing to the custom chrome decal along the sidecar. "Love Bowie—wish he was still touring regularly, ya know?" Megamind's fingers stilled on the decal, committing the words to memory – the name of the motorcycle, the appearance of its rider, and the wide, crooked grin she wore. When he looked up again, that grin faded.

"Well," she muttered tucking the helmet and goggles back into the storage compartment, "it's been real, but I've gotta get goin' – my assistant's waitin' on'er dinner an' Killer's prob'ly pouting. Not much sadder'n a sulking puppy, right?" Sobered, he nodded, carefully testing the steadiness of his legs; nope, he still felt like he was standing on noodles. The biker said nothing, studying their surroundings – crowded city, smoggy air, an oppressive stench of dirty exhaust and old factories—right before his eyes, she seemed older, wearier. "Listen, things should get better in time if yer patient," she promised, "but if ya find they're just gettin' worse up here, head down south. A fresh start might do ya some good, ya know?"

"In the whole time I've been on this planet," Megamind admitted in a mumble, "I've never been outside this city, let alone the state. Where could I go? Where could I be accepted if the people here won't accept me?"

"I dunno much about Michigan," the biker admitted with a wry smile, "but no two cities're alike. I don't know other places that well, but the city I call home has never let me down…I'm sure it'd do the same fer you." She patted his shoulder then dropped her hand feebly to her still-aching leg. "Ya ever find yerself in Missour-uh, head down to the Arkansas border – there's a lil' tourist trap in the Ozark Mountains called Branson. Hit me up if ya ever need a pickup, m'kay?"

"How?" he asked weakly. "Even if I do end up there, how could I find you?" The biker smirked at him, preparing to take off.

"It's easy," she promised. "Jus' find the Blue Fire in Ol' Downtown – I'll be there. Good luck, Blue – keep on keepin' on." Without another word and without looking back she took off, throwing him a backward lazy-wave on the way. Confused as ever but a little more confident, he watched the shape of her vanish into the distance. He still wasn't sure how he could ever manage to improve his life, not without defeating his nemesis and forcing the public to accept him, but he at least felt a little less alone now.

From the day he landed in the prison yard everyone treated him like a pariah, certain he was nothing but trouble; how ironic that a loud, reckless, unfiltered biker would break that pattern. It wasn't until hours later that he realized he never got her name.

* * *

> _**Present Day, Sonja's garage** _

_It's you._ The words made no sense to Sonja, but the somber, tired expression her guest wore now made even less sense. "Me?" she asked slowly making her way over to the motorcycle. "What, did I cut ya off or something? I get a lil' crazy on Calamity, but—" He scoffed, turning back to the bike again, eyes taking in the custom chrome lettering on the sidecar. _Calamity's Child –_ a name straight out of David Bowie's "Rebel Rebel" and a name he never forgot after the first time reading it. "Yer spookin' me, Megs. What'd I miss?"

Megamind wasn't sure what to say – how could he put it into words? How could he tell her what he realized when it was so improbable, so _impossible,_ that he couldn't wrap his brain around it? The odds of them ever meeting again, especially on accident, were mind-boggling! Finally, his decision made, he met her eyes again in determination. With a twist of his watch, his falsely human appearance fizzled out, leaving behind the real him.

Mid-step, Sonja stumbled, eyes practically bulging out of their sockets. For a moment, she said nothing—she just soaked in the sight of him, the alien from Michigan, and searched for words that could adequately express her surprise at running into him again. Only one word came to mind, and that one word finally spewed from her lips in a near-shriek, followed by an even more shrill demand:

_"MOTHER-FUCKER!_ _**YOU?!"** _

* * *

> _**Up Next:** _ **Loss and the Lost**

**NOTES:**

***Pennywise –** Recall that in chapter 2 Sonja snarked to herself about having 'Pennywise the dancing clown' in her cellar. Also, recall that this chapter shows the first time she's actually SEEN Megamind, so naturally she didn't recognize him.

 ***Dog-Run** – this term is uncommon and somewhat obsolete, but has several possible meanings. If referring to an outdoor feature, it's a fenced area yard built as an exercise pen for dogs. In architecture, it refers to a style of structure notable for two or four large rooms or units opposing each other with an open-air hallway running between them; this hallway is NOT enclosed by walls or doors and allows outside air to flow through, thus helping cool the occupants. In THIS case, Sonja fenced off her back yard and split that yard in two, designating the larger side 'yard' and the smaller one 'dog-run;' the dog-run is between the house and garage and accessible directly from the back porch, while the yard is on the other side and gated off. This gives Killer ample room to run around like a maniac while lessening the likelihood of stepping in a Killer bomb on the way to the grill.

 **#Painting a DeLorean –** When they first came out, DeLoreans were produced with stainless steel paneling instead of the typical molded and painted metal or fiberglass. Stainless steel, alas, does NOT take paint well, and painting it is a great deal different than painting regular auto bodies. In order for Sonja to accomplish her goal here – airbrushing a design onto the DeLorean's body – she'd need to evenly scuff the metal, apply sufficient primer, apply a base coat (if using a basecoat) airbrush the design, then apply a protective topcoat. It's more common to find DeLoreans painted nowadays than ever before because the stainless steel doesn't hide repairs very well – the panels were made to be _replaced,_ not _repaired,_ and paint can hide repairs. That said, some of the most delightful finishes I've ever seen on cars were on DeLoreans, especially in the case of owners opting for 'Candy' coats and clear metallic. The one time I saw a Chocolate Candy coat on a DeLorean (picture a warm, rich brown about the same shade as molten chocolate, partly sheer with a bright metallic glimmer underneath) I literally cried. It was so beautiful it broke my poor little heart…then I saw a fully restored Opel GT in classic Khaki next to it and my heart gave up the ghost. Not much'll twang my heartstrings like an obscure foreign classic.


	4. Loss and the Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THIS CHAPTER is where it starts actually getting good, Folks. Stay tuned!

_Now we've got all the posted chapters cross-posted over here, sweet! Updates have slowed down for several reasons (health problems out the arse, quarantine/essential worker issues, grief recovery, MORE health problems, etc) but they haven't stopped. I've got the next chapter in the works -_ **Blue** **Fire -** _but there's no telling when it'll be finished. Please be patient?_ _HOPEFULLY we've only got one more chapter of story setup before the ball really gets rolling._

_In the meantime, this story has a couple of **playlists** on Spotify for anyone interested!_

> _**["A Blue Fire State of Mind"](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/57MLVmeiEx1N9P6iHDjEPR?si=BKlN9_F4QhOcW4GMUaJXlQ)**[on Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/57MLVmeiEx1N9P6iHDjEPR?si=BKlN9_F4QhOcW4GMUaJXlQ) \- Here you'll find the very essence of the **Blue Fire** bodyshop - classic metal and rock in every shape and form, the occasional cameo by bands hailing from the Ozarks, and "absolutely no pop or country bullshit!" _
> 
> _**["A Match Made in Metal"](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0DfBQunVlx6Nj0IFHKwteA?si=p_5xZGrkQXGnZIjueT84jw)**[on Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0DfBQunVlx6Nj0IFHKwteA?si=p_5xZGrkQXGnZIjueT84jw) \- Playlist for the story in general. Songs relate to plot events, characters, interactions, pairings, and overall attitude of the story. Expect a sh*t-ton of rock, metal, and alternative._

_Lastly, I'd like to take a moment to thank everyone for their patience and understanding, and give a shout-out to some wonderful people who've made this period of time livable. This chapter is dedicated to Wolf, Newt, and Ihlni for their invaluable support and kind words – to my hubby Cold for letting me ugly-cry on him without complaint and never failing to remind me that life has to go on – to my ma-in-law for teasing me about earning a nasty hangover instead of acknowledging that I looked like death-on-the-rocks and was obviously crying before I answered the door – to my mother for being a bloody SAINT and to my father for intentionally being an asshole when someone to fight with was just what I needed – to Wanda Farmer on AO3 and vbt22220 on FFnet for their encouragement in reviews, the folks on Tumblr who offered kind words when I needed them most, and to all you wonderful people who've stuck by me, read my stories, and are still reading after all this time. Above all, though, this chapter is dedicated to the memory of Granny Chance and Uncle Bob – may they ever rest in peace._

* * *

> _**Suggested Listening:** _ _**RUSH "Open Secrets," Blind Faith "Can't Find My Way Home," The Church "Under the Milky Way"** _

**4: Loss and the Lost**

Sonja Merlo learned many years ago that the world wasn't all it seemed. After all, she grew up in Branson, Missouri, home to the worst-kept secrets in all the Ozarks—heck, she _employed_ four of those secrets at her customs shop! Still, only a few years back she pulled into the parking lot of a remote fast food joint and found herself face-to-face with a man not of this world, and the realization floored her. Her world was already shaken to bits by the loss of her Uncle Jack; _now_ she had proof that aliens existed _and_ one was living in Michigan. After the shock of the blue-skinned stranger's nonhumanity wore off, though, she noticed something much more concerning: _he was lost._

She could tell from the moment she first saw him in that grimy parking lot—he was struggling just as she was struggling, perhaps even more than she was. Sure, he wasn't driving up to Detroit to pitch a vintage leopard skin-upholstered white elephant at an auto convention while reeling from the too-recent suicide of a loved one but he was struggling just the same. Given enough time, Sonja's grief would fade and she'd be able to reminisce on the good times with Jack rather than his death; this man would always be trapped in a world he didn't choose. That night, she didn't ask what demons he fought—she just offered the crying shoulder and listening ear she always refused to partake of herself. He didn't ask her story, either, or even her name—he took what she offered and gave back something she never expected.

After dropping him off in the warehouse district Sonja spent another half-hour idly cruising the quiet roads along the docks, lost in thought without a map. By the time she made it back to Killer, her assistant Alice, and the cramped RV they called home for these trips, she felt certain of one thing: she was still lost, but perhaps she helped that stranger find his way home. Now? Now she knew the truth, disappointing though it was. The stranger—this "Megamind" character—never found his way after all. At one of the lowest times in her life, she reached out to help someone else…and it accomplished nothing. The realization was bitter, if it was anything.

All the while Sonja ruminated on the futility of her rare attempt at helping someone else _on purpose,_ Megamind waited. Breath catching in his lungs, feet shuffling in the sand and leaf-litter on the garage floor, he waited for the words sure to bring his hopes crashing down around him. They always came, after all, no matter how long they were delayed. _You're trouble—you're a criminal—you're disgusting—you're not welcome here!_ Sure, the accusations varied from mouth to mouth but the theme remained the same: this wasn't his world, he was an unwelcome, unaccepted _other_ who would never amount to anything. He'd hoped this far from home he might not meet the same reactions—the same distrust and disgust—but the longer Sonja remained silent, the more those hopes dwindled.

Now that he thought about it, he found it hard to believe he didn't recognize her from the start—she'd barely changed at all! Her hair was still windblown and brightly highlighted, her grin still somewhere between playful and smug, and her eyes still uncommonly blue. Despite his best intentions, his eyes darted down to the black ink sprawling down her left leg, then immediately skittered away again. Even if everything else seemed the same, that tattoo was new to him. From the first glance, he was intrigued by the design and impressed by the intricate ink-work. Now that he knew the extent of the scarring it hid, he felt like an absolute cad. It took a couple years but it eventually sank in; his disgusted gawking at her scars the night they met was no better than the horrified stares he got for _his_ abnormalities.

Tearing his eyes away from the floor, he looked to Sonja—she still stared right through his left shoulder. He shifted on his feet, looked back, retreated again, then repeated the process several times more. The only sound in the garage was the panting of that huge slobbering mutt she called _Killer_. The tension in the room wasn't improving any with this awkward silence…enough. Someone had to do _something_ and _clearly_ she wasn't able or willing to step up. He dug his fingertips into the tension headache building right between his eyebrows, the other hand gripping his elbow. "Just _say something_ already," he prompted, _"before_ this, you _wouldn't shut up."_ Sonja blinked rapidly as though startled from her own thoughts. After a moment of taking in the sight of him— _no,_ he thought bitterly, _you're not hallucinating—_ she huffed a frustrated sigh.

"Ya know," she muttered idly disheveling her already messy hair, "when I suggested comin' down here for a new start, I was hopin' ya'd know not to bring trouble with ya." Finally, the silence was broken, but the awkwardness was only increasing.

"I…I never planned to…to stay," he admitted as his hands fell to his sides, useless. "My…friend and I are headed for the _bored-err~…_ I was only passing through." He chanced meeting her eyes again but found them cold—no, not just cold, _disappointed—_ and returned to staring at the floor."You didn't know me," he tried to explain, "but you were—you treated me—" He trailed off, frustrated by his inability to put into words just what her kindness and compassion had meant to him—what it _still_ meant to him years later. "You saw all… _this,"_ he mumbled with a vague gesture to himself. "I wasn't in _dis-guys_ —I was cold, hungry, _dee-spondent_ …"~ He reluctantly lifted his eyes to hers again, this time finding them almost entirely closed off. "Did you even _see_ that I'm…different?"

 _"Did I see?"_ Sonja drawled crossing her arms with a huff. _"My brother's colorblind—I'M NOT._ I _saw_ yer skin, I just _didn't care._ Ya live in this city long enough ya see some seriously weird shit—weirder'n _you_ by far."~ Megamind tried not to focus on the 'shit' attached to 'weird' since she described _him_ as weird, too; his ego had already taken enough of a beating. "Should'a known better,"~ she grumbled as she shooed Killer out of _Calamity's Child's_ sidecar and yanked the tarp back over it _._ "Tryin'a help folks always jus' blows up in my face,"~ she ranted under her breath, oblivious to her inhuman guest's cringing and squirming. "Look what happened with Heckerman—diff'rent day, same bullshit—anytime I try to help some'un it jus' blows up in my face an' I git stuck cleanin' up the mess…"~

Just when Megamind began to wonder if she even realized he was there, Sonja froze mid-pace facing the still-drying DeLorean in the painting booth. Her right hand swept up, fingers spearing through her messy hair; a harsh, frustrated sigh hissed out between her teeth and she dropped her arm to scowl at the inside of her wrist. What she saw there, Megamind knew not. From where he was, it looked like nothing more than an oddly-shaped patch of freckles,but whatever it was, it seemed to steady her and strengthen her resolve. "This…changes things," she admitted clenching her fist then shoving it deep in her pocket. "With a secret like that, no way can I keep ya safe on my own."

For just one moment, Megamind hoped he'd found safety—a port in the storm, if not an ally to lend a hand. Funny how the smallest of hopes could hurt the most when dashed to pieces. Though he left Metro City behind several states ago it really wasn't _that_ long ago. He fancied he could still smell the acrid smoke from the industrial park, the fishy wind from the harbor and the cherry and apple blossoms in the park. In the eyes closing off from his, he could almost see flashing lights; in her voice, he heard sirens and static on the police scanners. _There was no help in Metro City…there would be no help here._

Shoulders tense, he turned leave but paused just at the edge of the dimming sunlight puddling in the open doorway. "Thank you." The sudden sentiment pulled Sonja from her thoughts and for a moment, all she could do was stare at him, lost and bewildered.

"For what?" she snorted. "Threatenin' ya? Lockin' ya in the cellar? Poisoning ya with garlic? _Cussin' at ya?"_

"Thanks for _seeing me,"_ he corrected with a wry smile, "and for being _cull-ER-bly-end."~_ Sonja opened her mouth to protest—her brother Jason was colorblind but she saw just fine! Then she realized what he really meant; her eyes flew open wide and her teeth snapped back together with an audible _clack._ _Well-played, Blue-boy. Well-played._

In the time it took Megamind to work up his courage to leave, Sonja made up her mind to do what she should have done years ago. She yanked off one battered sneaker…and _chucked it at him_ full-force _._ The alien sprang up in the air with a pained _yelp_ and lurched about to face her with both hands protectively clasped over his stinging backside. _"You threw_ _ **a shoe**_ _at me!"_ he accused shrilly.

 _"Damn right I threw a shoe at'cha!"~_ Sonja fired back. "Ya done _runnin'_ yet?!"

"Not if you're _throwing things at me!"_ Sonja's shoulders slumped in defeat; she shook her head.

"Forget the shoe, dumbass," she grumbled. "The shoe's not what matters, it's _why I took it off."_

"You took it off _to throw it at me!"_ he retorted with a glare. "I fail to see the _rel-LA-vence!"~_

"I ain't kickin' ya out, ya idjit,"~ she snapped instead of correcting his pronunciation. "I told ya if ya came down here, ya'd need'a find the Blue Fire downtown, remember?~ If we're gonna pull this off we'll need a hand, an' there's no one on earth I'd trust more'n~ those folks."~ His dander calming, Megamind reluctantly released his still-stinging backside to rub his scalp in confusion.

"You're…not sending me away," he muttered in disbelief. "Why _ah-rent~_ you sending me away?" Sonja rolled her eyes at him.

"Guess I'm just _a special kind'a stupid,"_ she drawled. "Meantime ya need a shower, ya need sleep, an' I need _a drink—_ maybe _several,"_ she added with a cringe. "Tonight, we'll sleep on it; tomorrow I'm takin' ya to meet the masters of hidin' in plain sight. Now gimme my shoe, I got a dog."

* * *

Early that morning, the last thing Megamind expected was to find an ally with a half-forgotten face; he couldn't have been more wrong if he'd tried. For the first time since his flight from Metro City he felt _clean—_ instead of a quick dollar-a-minute rinse-off in a truck stop shower-house,* he took a long, relaxing shower with _actual_ hot water. Though the food in his belly tasted terrible going down, it left him free from hunger pains. Sure, he was restricted to hiding in a musty hidden cellar stocked up like a Cold War Doomsday bunker and everything stank of dog, but he could do worse. He had a rollaway cot parked under the furthest set of stairs, enough blankets to stay warm on the coldest nights, a thermos full of fresh hot cocoa, and a battery-operated analog radio. His obnoxious hostess was embarrassed by the Spartan furnishings of his temporary hideaway and promised improvements to come but Megamind was content without them. He wasn't sleeping crunched up in the seat of a car, eating moldy lunchmeat, or counting stomach grumbles instead of sheep. He had the option of using an actual bathroom—with a toilet, sink, shower, and everything!—instead of risking Lot Lizards and poison sumac.**

Best of all…he was _safe._ 'But for how long?' he wondered as he fiddled with the dials on the tiny radio. Sonja offered him support and kindness when he was a complete stranger, but when they met again, it was like a switch flipped. This made no sense to him. A stranger received kindness but a familiar face was regarded with cold suspicion—it went against everything he'd ever read about human psychology! Wasn't it supposed to be the other way around? He shook his head, carefully extending the antenna to its limits in search of the best signal. Whether or not Sonja's odd behavior made sense, it was only temporary. If he couldn't predict her, he couldn't _trust her,_ and if he couldn't trust her, he couldn't _stay._

Human ears would never have picked up the faint music coming from the speakers, but Megamind wasn't human. He heard it perfectly well. A few more moments of jerry-rigging and his task was complete: the communications watch buzzed to life despite the thick stone and concrete surrounding him. Sonja probably never considered that he'd use the radio's antenna to boost the signal of his watch to call for backup.

 _"Sir!_ Sir, _are you alright?_ Are you _hurt?_ What—" Megamind cut Minion off before the fish could work himself even more into a tizzy. The picture was pixelated and lagging but from the looks of it, Minion was…

"Are you seriously lazing around on _rocks?"_ he demanded with a cringe. Minion's face contorted into his awkward version of a shrug.

"Coal train," the fish answered. "No one ever checks for stowaways and the speed's worth the discomfort."# The genius dragged one hand down his face with a sigh. Where there was coal, there was coal dust; even without exposure to the elements, the ventilation system on Minion's suit couldn't be in good condition. "So where are you?" the fish continued heedless of the green glare aimed at him over the radio waves. "I'm almost to Arkansas if—"

"The plan has changed," Megamind cut in triggering a _HORRIFIED!_ Minion gasp. _"I_ may have found an _al-eye_ here; if not, we could at least stand a chance to _REH-sup-lie_ and regroup."~ He shoved off the reminder that Sonja was probably only hiding him to save her own skin in case he was caught near her land. "I'm sending you coordinates – _Code: turn back_ and _meet me here."_

"Sir…you _do know_ the whole purpose of a _code_ is—" A deadpan glower cut Minion off. "Fine," he mumbled around what was left of his self-respect as an evil henchman. _"Code: I'll be there as soon as I can."_

* * *

Every place on Earth had its beauty, whether that beauty was recognized by its inhabitants or not. To Sonja, nights like this one were _Branson's_ beauty. Late summer-bugs sang in the still air—dimming lightnin' bugs drifted from tree to tree in search of a quick lay—off in the distance, a wailing pack of coyotes traded insults with some unseen bird of prey. Amidst it all, the sweet smell of hickory smoke and descending fog hung like a fond memory. _Diamond Bear Pale Ale_ in hand, dog sprawled out across her numbing legs, Sonja Merlo felt truly blessed. This was the life…and if she understood clearly, it was the kind of life Megamind never had the chance to enjoy.

Her fingers cramped around the sweating glass bottle as she vividly recalled the moment she first saw the alien years before. _Alone_ —he was so _alone_ in that parking lot, and all while in a city full of people. Funny, really—she always got the impression she was the only one capable of feeling lonely while surrounded by more bodies than she cared to count. Branson was ripe with opportunities for socialization but outside work it was just never worth the risk. _Friendships_ meant _risk_ , risk meant _danger_ , and _danger_ …well, the scars littering Killer's ears and muzzle were one thing _danger_ led to. Her eyes softened, her hand straying to chafe the dog's always itchy chin. All across the yard and so-called _dog run,_ tiny pinpoints of acidic yellow light drifted on the wind. Those tiny bioluminescent bugs had many options, she mused bitterly; all those options and, instead, they wasted their morbidly brief lives shining light into darkness.

"Ya always liked lightnin' bugs," she muttered to a person long gone, and again, turned to inspect the inside of her right wrist. Across the pale skin, fine lines and specks of pale brown ink twisted and turned—a year coiled into a hook and two initials rounded into a speck to render it a semicolon.^ _GM—Giaccomo Merlo,_ the beloved uncle who took his own life the month Sonja committed to the Detroit convention. Her fingers clenched around nothing, her throat around still-painful memories. Once, Jack was the strongest influence in her life…now he was just a painted reminder. "Lightnin' bugs never live long, Jackie," Sonja mumbled to the unhearing ink.^^ "With glowin' bugs for a role model, it's no surprise we lost ya to yer demons. Why couldn't ya've found a better role model, maybe somethin' 'at don't die so soon?"

Another mournful howl broke the silence—Sonja's grip loosened, her eyes lifting to the sky. By the end of the month, the nights would be too foggy to see the sky, but now, there wasn't a cloud in the way. As far as the eye could see—all the way from the dark south to the ever-present light pollution of Branson's main drag—deceptively tiny pinpoints of light littered a velveteen-black canvas, all for the pleasure of those who cared to look. "Even if ya weren't a lightnin' bug," she murmured to the spirit of her loved one, eyes wide and watery, "we still couldn't'a kept ya, could we? You were a shootin' star if I e'er knew one—ya never lived unless you were givin' it yer all."~

A rather pitiful whimpering broke Sonja from her thoughts; Killer nuzzled her stress-whitened knuckles. How long had she been clenching her fist? How had she failed to notice it until her nails dug trenches in her work-roughened skin? She winced and hissed as she slackened her grip and worked away the stiffness, her abused tendons aching every step of the way. This time she put the hand to better use: petting her beloved mutt.

Sonja spent so long idolizing her uncle Jack's independence and gentle spirit that she never realized they were _killing him._ Now a few years had passed though the loss was still tender to prodding, and she was faced with a decision to make. Jack would have risked his life to help the stranger—this alien who called himself _Megamind_ —and Jack was dead. Was it Jack's generosity that ruined him? Was his soft heart the cause of its own breaking? Was his sensitivity, kindness, and determination—individually, all good qualities—the source of his undoing? Or…or was it something only he knew, a demon only Jack could name?

Another blinking light flashed in the darkness, this time, a gleaming trail of white far above the winking fireflies. 'A shooting star?' Sonja wondered with bated breath. 'Naw, it's prob'ly nothin'…maybe the Orionids're startin' early this year?'~ She didn't know much about astronomy and outer space beyond what she read in the news but it didn't take an idiot to realize the timing was entirely too convenient. Life didn't work like that. Sure, she wouldn't profess to know everything about the world but she was willing to bet her missing someone wasn't enough to affect the environment. Something that _might_ be a falling star could cross the sky when Sonja felt lost, but that wasn't proof that her late uncle's spirit was trying to lead her home!

She stilled at the word. _Home._ The alien in her cellar didn't _have_ a home—whatever his reasons or lack thereof, he left his home behind, possibly somewhere beyond the Milky Way. Despite the proof right before her eyes, the impossibility of Megamind's existence gave her pause. The odds of a sentient life form crash-landing on earth and surviving were pretty low. The odds of her running into said sentient and non-dead alien—not once, but _twice,_ especially with a good thousand miles between the meetings—those odds were even more ridiculous. Still, to steal the immortal words of Geddy Lee (and some pack of self-important geezers) _the truths about Megamind were self-evident:_ he came, he saw, he raided her garden, now he was hiding from the authorities in her cellar. At least she didn't have an Indian in her cupboard. "World," Sonja grumbled kneading the ache from her still-sore knee, "if yer tryin'a get my attention, ya got it, now quit with all the Devil's Tower mash-po-taters bullshit."~

Her internal grousing ground to a halt shortly after her verbal bitching. Strange…when did the fireflies stop dancing? After a moment of fruitless searching for the toxic yellow glow, Sonja relented and turned her eyes again towards the heavens. Once, she felt sure she helped Megamind find his way again; now she knew they were _both_ more lost than ever, but of the two, whose path was more off-track? The cold, uncaring balls of gas in the distance had no answers, and for the moment, she was fine waiting. Sprawled across her lap, chin to the sky and a snaggle-toothed grin splitting his lips, the scarred Dane mix drooled on her paint-spattered cargo shorts, unimpressed by her angsting. The goofy smelly mutt adored her, and all she did was take him in after he was seized from some sicko's dogfighting ring. People really made her sick; if they were more like dogs, surely she'd get along with them more easily.

"Lotta stars up in that there sky, Killer," Sonja sighed absently rubbing his neck. "Out'n all those stars, which'un ya reckon he fell from?"

* * *

> _**Up** **Next:**_ _Megs meets Sonja's 'family-for-pay,' learns how to hide in plain sight, and gets a glimpse at the soul behind the sarcasm in_ **Blue Fire** _(work in progress)_

**Notes**

***** **Quick and expensive showers at truck stops** – This one's secondhand but should be accurate. Many large truck stops have pay-per-use showers for the use of long-haul truckers, as do some establishments in regions with heavy tourism. In one case, while vacationing in Wyoming many years back, I visited a laundromat offering pay-per-use showers for tourists. For about the price of a load of laundry you could have a five minute shower with luke-warm water, but it's NOT a good idea if you have long hair. My hair was literally ass-length at the time - I ran out of water before all the suds were out and had to finish up at the sink. Not the best part of that trip. ;)

 **** Lot Lizards / Poison Sumac –** "Lot Lizard" is a term referring to sex-workers [read "hookers"] who frequent truck stops intent on catering to long-haul truck drivers. / A recent and controversial "improvement" to some parts of Southern Missouri's highways was demolishing public rest stops. Now if you're on the road you have the option of finding a gas station, store, or restaurant with a public restroom (increasingly uncommon) OR the age-old standby _find a bush._ In the event that you cannot accomplish the first option, making use of a poison sumac, poison oak, or other unfriendly wild flora is a good way to end up with a rash on your rump.

 **# Coal trains –** Most railways traveling through southern Missouri service coal and salvage companies. Cars containing coal are generally open at the top and thus exposed to the elements, so not something you'd expect people to hitch a ride on. Fun fact: if you live near one of these tracks and your kids/siblings/etc have been little shits, you can usually find small pieces of coal along the tracks. Since the cars are open up top, sometimes weather and unexpected jolts can dislodge pieces of cargo. Worried about legality? Even more fun fact: if the coal companies DID comb their thousands of miles of track for lost chunks, they'd net MAYBE a pound and it'd cost a fortune. No one's coming after that little black window-breaker. Go for it.

 **##** Despite heavy exposure to craft beer varieties I'm not a beer drinker; I have to rely on research and recommendations in these stories. I found an article stating that **Diamond Bear Pale Ale** is the best-selling beer in Arkansas but I'm not sure of the accuracy there - I've _never even heard of_ most brands noted in the article, and the brand noted as Missouri's best seller was completely unknown to me. Of course, since Sonja's _originally from Arkansas,_ expecting her decisions to make sense to someone _from Missouri_ is a losing game. Yeah. There's a bit of state rivalry there.

In body art trends, the **semicolon** has become a symbol of hope, recovery, and perseverance in relation to depression, grief, and/or suicide. A common (and highly simplistic) explanation is _a semicolon is used when a writer has the option of ending sentence but chooses not to._ In this case, Sonja's tattoo is both a monument to her beloved uncle she lost to suicide _and_ a personal reminder to never give up. She's got several tattoos besides the two mentioned so far so her choice in keeping this one minimal and discreet says a lot about her personality. More than that you'll have to wait for!

 **Lightnin' bugs never live long –** In Studio Ghibli's **Grave of the Fireflies** , Setsuko asked "Why do fireflies have to die so soon?" The symbolism in this movie gave me absolute FITS – it was heartbreakingly beautiful. Watch it. You WILL cry buckets. **I** cried buckets. It's worth it.

 **"We hold these truths self-evident" –** a quote from _the United States' Declaration of Independence_ which was featured in RUSH's _Alien Shore._ TBH, the vast majority of RUSH's lyrics were written by Neil Peart so Sonja's _actually_ name-dropping _him_ with the Founding Fathers but she's focusing on the _vocalist_ instead of the _writers_ because she's not much for details.

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**Glossary**

**Words** _noted like this_ **which look like gobbledygook** _ **–**_ In the movie, Megamind has a tendency to botch seemingly random pronunciations. Sometimes he switches vowel sounds without realizing it – for instance, _Metro Mahn_ instead of _Metro Man –_ while others he emphasizes the wrong syllable. Here, I've spelled those botched words out _as they sound_ to keep his dialogue quirks intact. Syllables in ALL CAPS indicate emphasis on that syllable, while the entire word should be in _italics._ Examples: _re-SUP-lie –_ resupply and a toughie, _cull-ER-BLY-end –_ colorblind. FWIW, I'd LOVE to hear the Canon reasoning behind this but suspect it's a combination of _**insinuated**_ _mild dyslexia_ and subliminal influences from his late folks.

 _**Bored-err** _ **–** _border_

 _**In dis-guys / dee-spondent** _ **–** _In disguise / despondent_

 **Weirder'n you –** _Weirder than you._

 **Tryin'a help folks always jus' blows up in my face –** _Anytime I try to help someone it always goes horribly wrong._ _coughFORESHADOWINGcough._

 **Look what happened with Heckerman -** _Look what happened with Officer Heckerman!_ Meaning she tried helping Heckerman by fixing his car but now she's paying for it because he's a friggin' egomaniacal psycho who won't take NO for an answer.

 **Diff'rent day, same bullshit—anytime I try to help some'un it jus' blows up in my face an' I git stuck cleanin' up the mess –** "Same [bull]shit, different day" is a moderately common phrase in the southern Missouri/Northern Arkansas region, and it can mean roughly 'nothing ever changes' or indicate that one day was like any other. _Anytime I try to help someone it goes horribly wrong and I'm left dealing with the fallout._ _Some'un_ is uncommon above the Arkansas border and is pronounced similarly to the more common _young'un._

 _ **Cull-ER-bly-end –**_ _Colorblind._ Literally, being colorblind means your eyes can't process colors/certain colors due to imbalances or retinal deformities; _figuratively_ it means Sonja cared less that Megamind was _blue_ and more that he was _struggling,_ and didn't let his _blue skin_ deter her from offering a helping hand.

 **At'cha –** _at you,_ pronounced similarly to _catch_ and _ha!_ Smushed together with the _c-_ cut off. Compare to the more common _gotcha._ This altered pronunciation is centered on the _y-_ in _you_ rather than the word itself. It's relatively widespread but not entirely common, and frequently occurs in certain large NE cities. Pronunciation: ătchŭ.

 _ **Rel-LA-vence –**_ _relevance –_ again, he shifted the emphasis to the wrong syllable.

 **Ya'd need'a find –** Literally, _you would need to find_ , emphasis being on the intent to _search for_ the stated subject.

 _**Ah-rent –** _ _aren't_

 _**Al-eye / re-SUP-lie –** _ _ally / resupply_

 **We still couldn't'a kept ya, could we?** – Sometimes when a loved one struggles, you find yourself wondering things that don't really help the grief. In this case, Sonja's mentally Jack to lightning bugs and shooting stars – both have brief lives but in those lives, they bring light and joy to those who see them. Basically she's wondering _If you hadn't burned so brightly, would you still be with us?_

 **You were a shootin' star if I e'er knew one—ya never lived unless you were givin' it yer all. –** A direct reference to Bad Company's song _Shooting Star,_ which describes another man who lived his life to the fullest far too quickly. Most people are able to take their time in life and survive into old age; others are only satisfied by a fast life and even faster death.

 **Naw, it's prob'ly nothin'…maybe the Orionids're startin' early this year? –** _No, it's probably nothing_ [important or worth noticing.] _Maybe the Orionid meteor shower is starting early this year?_ The Orionid meteor shower is an ongoing annual event associated with Haley's Comet. The yearly display peaks in mid-October. Since this story's beginning is set in EARLY October, witnessing a meteor would be _unlikely_ but not _impossible._

 **If yer tryin'a get my attention, ya got it, now quit with all the Devil's Tower mash-po-taters bullshit. –** _If you're trying to get my attention you've got it – now stop sending me freaky occurrences to make your point!_ A direct reference to Close Encounters of the Third Kind.

 **Lotta stars up in that there sky, Killer. Out'n all those stars, which'un ya reckon he fell from?** – Sonja's leaning more toward Arkansas than usual, here. _There are so many stars up there. Out of all of them, which star do you think_ [Megamind] _fell from?_

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**Long-ass explanation for the newly included glossary and notes/** ** RE regional dialects.  
** **Skip if you wish, I won't be offended.**

In most of my stories, there's some amount of colloquialism, awkwardly-spelled slang, and intentionally-misspelled words; these aren't mistakes, but intentional changes which show the characters' accents and speech tendencies. Contrary to historic usage, this method of writing _is not always used as an insult_ or meant to indicate said characters are _stupid, ill-mannered, uncultured, or etc._ – that is an _obsolete_ and wholly _inaccurate_ use for the technique, similar to an actor _faking a stutter_ to imply their character is _ignorant_ or low-class _._ _There is no connection_ between a person's intellect and their stutter, stammer, or accent. **I do not write dialog this way to insult or degrade characters, cultures, or peoples – I use this method of writing to accurately portray the speech of characters according to their home turf or canon speech quirks.** IF I was altering characters' dialogue to insinuate that the character is _an ignorant hick_ I'd be _heaving those unfounded insults_ _ **at myself**_ _more than_ _ **the characters.**_ Folks who know me IRL and have heard me speak would know I can be even harder to understand than Sonja – I have a _very thick_ Ozarks accent which borders on _drawl_ and people from other regions tend to understand me poorly. If the _accent=idjit_ assumption was correct…well, let's just say I'd never have made the Dean's List in college and a certain international honor society _which-shall-not-be-named-because-privacy_ would have one fewer member. I'm not the exception in this – I'm _the norm._

That said, I've started including glossaries in fics/chapters with characters who are unusually difficult to understand. (I never intended to write for international readers, but apparently international readers have found my fics AND enjoyed them, so why not make it a little more accessible?) A lot of the words I note in-story are easily understood and rarely noticed when spoken, but write them down phonetically and people think you're speaking Greek. Instances are translated at the end of their chapter and noted in-story with some sort of bullet or character at the end. Honestly, it's a hassle-and-a-half putting together a comprehensive glossary for every single chapter of every story, and I feel like it comes across as patronizing to readers who have no problem following the writing, but I don't want to alienate readers who _do_ have difficulty. Thus, I'm going to keep the glossaries/notes at a minimum for this story here-on-out _unless otherwise requested._ Notes aside, what you'll see most are uncommon colloquialisms, region-specific slang, and words and pronunciations folks might'n't easily recognize unless they live in the Midwest or South. (Take that for example - you can have more than one contraction per word! That means _Might not,_ plain and simple.)

In this story, _Sonja_ will be the most common and _frustrating_ culprit as she has a very thick accent rarely heard outside the eastern-most parts of the Missouri-Arkansas border. Regionally speaking, _generally_ when someone refers to _the Midwest_ they're referring to a geographical area encompassing between 8-12 states. When _I_ refer to the Midwest in relation to dialect and accent it's depicting a much smaller region. The dialect I use most in my stories, commonly referred to as simply _the Midwestern twang_ or _the twang,_ is generally strongest and most common in an area sometimes referred to as _the Mozarks._ That means part of southern Missouri and northern Arkansas, centered on the Ozark Mountains. Though it's strongest in that area, different intensities of _the_ _twang_ can be commonly heard as far west as OK/KS/NE and as far north as IA. Generally once you cross the Mississippi river or hit the southern half of Arkansas you start hearing more _drawl_ than _twang,_ and the further you get from the Ozark Mountains, the more the _twang_ will alter, fade, or blend with other regional variations.

If glossary entries include pronunciation (included for shits an' giggles) I've used the key usually used in Webster's dictionaries for convenience. As always, if you get lost, get confused, or just feel like chatting, feel free to hit me up on whatever site this is posted on. I get super geeky about language and regional variations, and especially about the region this story is set in, and I love feedback!


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